


Hostage

by obsolete_theory (ersatzbeta)



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ersatzbeta/pseuds/obsolete_theory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aya could have walked away for real. He could have left Yohji alone. But he hadn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hostage

**Author's Note:**

> I'd started this as an AU prompt, but it just didn't turn out AU enough, considering what I was aiming for. This could almost be set in the canon Weiss universe. I like it anyway. There's fairly explicit self-gratification and a whole lot of angst. Also, it's kind of sort of (but not really) genderswap. You'll see what I mean. It's another one of those stories that I worry treads the PWP line, but I think I've avoided it by a narrow, narrow margin.

Aya couldn't remember how, exactly, Yohji had conned him into this little excursion to a bar--several bars--but now, here they were in the mens' room, which was poorly lit by fluorescent lights. One of them was buzzing and it was giving Aya a headache as it droned.

The stall he currently occupied was covered in graffiti, which he despised, and though it was clean, it still smelled a bit like vomit, which made his nascent headache worse and did nothing for the anger that boiled inside him.

Yohji was in the stall next door. He wasn't alone. He'd picked up a girl in the crowd somewhere, and now they were slamming against the metal partitions, shaking the walls around Aya. The girl made awful noises, like she was choking on the air. She moaned, too, adding another layer to the music that was playing in the bar proper, counterpoint to the rattling of the walls and doors. It infuriated Aya.

This whole scenario had been Yoji's idea. Before Aya had even gotten the words out of his mouth, Yohji had flat out refused to have sex with him. Apparently Yohji didn't do men. He wouldn't touch Aya, but he'd goaded--cajoled, coerced, whatever--him into staying close by while he fucked this stranger. This woman. What he'd said then had been an inspired bit of cruelness and Aya wasn't sure whether or not Yohji had known just how bad it sounded. Probably not.

"Maybe you could pretend," Yohji had said. "You know. That it's you."

Adding insult to injury, Yohji's pick was a redhead.

Aya had been beyond angry and had, in fact, walked out on Yohji--the alternative being to punch out that pretty face of his-- and had left him there in the bar. But he had come back a minute or two later, drawn like the needle of a compass to the north, straight into the mens' room where he'd last caught a glimpse of Yohji, his red-headed woman in tow as they'd ducked through the door. It hadn't been hard to find them.

Aya had come back partly out of morbid curiosity and partly because, damn it all, he did really want Yohji that bad, no matter how he told himself he didn't. He palmed himself through his jeans, canted into the movement with his hips. Aya was already hard. His face flushed, even now, with the strength of his wants. His needs. He swore anew that he'd never, ever let Yohji know how bad it was. Being shot down once was bad enough, thank you.

Aya could have walked away for real, could have left the bar and taken the car home. He could have left Yohji alone. Maybe he should have. But he hadn't and he didn't. His dick throbbed out of sync with the music that spilled in from the dance floor. He was angry and hot and jealous, jealous of the girl three feet over. Aya's temper flared hotter even as he pressed himself against a wall to try and steady himself. They were going strong next door.

He shook his head, tried to get the hair out of his face, but it was already starting to stick to his sweaty skin. Aya unzipped his pants, braced himself against the wall that separated his space from Yohji's, and started to imagine. He wasn't stroking his own dick anymore. It was Yohji's. Yohji's dick lay in his hands, hot, heavy, demanding his attention. Yohji would fuck him soon, Aya knew it in his bones, and the anticipation was so thick he could barely swallow for it. Could hardly breathe.

Eyes closed, Aya snaked his other hand under his shirt, relaxing into the sensation. It was Yohji's hand touching his nipples, Yohji's eyes that pinned him in place, Yohji's hair that brushed against his neck as he leaned close to taste Aya's skin, Yohji running his fingers down Aya's dick. Yohji, Yohji, Yohji.

And then the fantasy started to change.

It was Yohji doing these things still, yes, because that was what Aya wanted. But, instead of Yohji's hands gliding across his flat, muscled chest, his hands played with Aya's breasts: sensitive, near-handfuls of his flesh cupped in Yohji's palms. Aya realized that he wasn't a man for Yohji, and he burned all the hotter for it, surprising though it was. No longer was Yohji stroking his dick, but rather he teased his fingers between Aya's legs, sliding over the slick, hot topography of Aya's altered self.

Aya concentrated fiercely, clinging to the sensations of his hand moving up and down on his dick and transmuting them, filtering through his fantasy. He was a woman, a woman just for Yohji. He bit his lip. Yohji slid into him, gentle, Aya tight around him, Yohji's chest hard against Aya.

And it was him that Yohji fucked now, not some girl he'd picked up at the bar. Aya held on to his shoulders, dug his fingers in and pulled him closer. He could almost feel Yohji's chin, unshaven, rasping across his shoulder, the uneven breaths he took as he pulled out of Aya and thrust back in. The wall behind him juddered. Aya allowed himself the tiniest of noises, a hum deep in the back of his throat. And then Yohji pushed into him again, harder, and the wall rattled. The breath caught in Aya's chest, and again he allowed himself the satisfaction of a little noise when he exhaled. He told himself that no one would notice.

The overhead light buzzed incessantly, the music played in the background, and above all, there was the thumping and groaning next door, the screech of the stalls as they shifted in their fixings. Aya disapproved of how loud Yohji was being. What if someone walked in on them? It was obvious what they were doing. But still, when he moved like that, his hips grinding into Aya's… He bit his lip harder, and the coppery tang of blood hit his tongue. His fingers convulsed over his dick, skidded through the accumulated wetness at the head, and returned back down again for another stroke.

The noises next door became frantic, the shaking of the stalls speeding up, and Aya was dragged along with them. Yohji is fucking me, he told himself. Yohji. Me. Fucking. He held the fantasy tight. His ears picked out the sounds of Yohji's panting breath, and he could feel it, damn it, he could feel it condensing over his neck, could feel Yohji's hands at his waist, tracing his breasts, dipping down to where their bodies joined. Aya clenched his teeth as his whole body tensed up, vaulting him into orgasm. Yohji, he thought, desperately. Yohji.

Aya came back to himself disappointingly quickly, his fantasy shredded by the evidence on his hand, by the continued outpouring of sound from three feet away. He sighed and frowned. He wasn't what Yohji wanted. Yohji wanted women, and that Aya could never be. Aya wiped the mess off with toilet paper and tossed it into the toilet, not bothering to flush. He tucked himself back into his pants and zipped them up. He felt numb.

He unbolted the door, the rattle of which was camouflaged by the activity in the other stall. Aya fled as quietly as he could, not even stopping to wash his hands. He wanted out, didn't want to see--didn't want to hear--Yohji when he came.

Aya made it as far as the mens' room door.

"Aya!"

It was Yohji's voice, deep and full of pleasure. It shorted out Aya's thoughts.

Aya stood there, dumbfounded, one hand on the door. His heart beat once, twice, three times. Then came a slap-crack! and the door to Yohji's stall opened. A woman stomped toward him, tucking her blouse into her skirt, not looking up until the last, when she rammed into him.

"What the hell are you looking at?" she said.

Her makeup was smeared, her lips swollen. Her hair was obviously dyed, the roots already beginning to show. She shoved past Aya before he could apologize. He let go of the door and she swung through it and back out into the bar. Aya continued to stare at the stalls. It felt like he'd been hit by lightning, and all he could do was breathe as his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. His face filled with heat, hot, hot, hotter.

When Yohji stepped out, adjusting his pants as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, a livid handprint standing out on one cheek, Aya's courage deserted him. He could still hear Yohji crying out, calling his name, and he shivered. He wiped his sweaty hair out of his face.

Yohji froze when he saw Aya move. His hand hovered above his still un-buckled belt. Their eyes met for a split second, in the mirrors above the sinks. Aya saw lust reflected there, and shame and fear. A multitude of Yohjis looked away first, green eyes hidden by hair and lowered eyelashes. Aya's mouth tightened into a frown and his anger, previously banked by pleasure, started to rise up again. He knew he wasn't being fair to Yohji, letting him bear the brunt of his feelings, but he didn't care. Yohji wasn't being fair to him, either. Aya was trapped, trapped in this body, trapped in these emotions. He hated it. Something inside him burned, painful, and he couldn't let it go.

Without a word, Aya turned and left.


End file.
